Dear Diary,
I would like to start by asking you if you need me to write this diary in braille? Because frankly, I’m starting to worry about many, many, many of yous’ eyesight if the response to a certain photograph mother put on Facebook the other day is anything to go by (the one above). In that photograph I am seen tied up like an unwanted puppy outside an RSPCA shelter on Boxing Day, emaciated with my ribs clearly seen as a damning indictment of mother’s appalling fixation with my weight and her corresponding failure to feed me properly. Stevie Wonder would be able to see how neglected I look.
But no.
You lot don’t tell her I look fine. In fact, you tell her that I look AMAZING.
Is there something wrong with you?! I now see (pardon the pun) why so many of you fall off on videos on Shite Eventers Unite – it’s not because you’re cr*p at riding (although to be fair, many of you are – my mother being one of your kind), but because you can’t chuffing see the jump. Honestly, I despair.
It’s been a few days of social media-induced stress to be honest with you, as mother had started the weekend posting videos of me walking to my doom (letting her “catch me”) and then of her attempting to lunge me, which frankly involved her chuntering pointless boll*x at me while wafting a pink stick (no, she’s not of the carrot stick clan – she just couldn’t find a lunge whip with an actual, you know, whip bit) in my vague direction, which I resolutely ignored, thus proving once again she has the horsewoman skills of a potted plant. Yet again, many of you took to social media to praise her, which frankly shows that there are many, many equines across the land being subjected to levels of ineptitude which are only matched by a government of any party in this country. For the love of God, the woman can’t even make me go round in circles with any degree of control – if ever you wanted to know who the brains of the outfit are then there was the evidence. Just because she’s old and broken doesn’t mean to say I am, and walking is seriously overrated. My trot is still the masterclass in power that it always was – let us not forget where once there was Moorlands Dorrito there was also Boglands Quaver – just because I don’t like stressage doesn’t mean I can’t come down a centre line like a flatulent Michael Flatley in a toilet queue. I am not in any way broken, I’m just under-fed – please see above paragraph…
Clearly mother shares a different view, but then why after all these years that should surprise anyone is beyond me.
Desperate to make her point about my physical limitations and her astronomical sacrifices (her level of suffering is nothing compared to the poor bank manager, who has had offers no grown man should ever be subjected to. I swear my mother’s wiles to gain cash should be covered under the Geneva convention), she then produced a post listing all the damage I have done to both my body and her bank balance over the 17 years that I have been forced to put up with her. Admittedly you have to admire it as a list which is as varied as it is lengthy, but I do think it makes me sound like a very expensive walking sicknote rather than the philanthropist I see myself as: Herman’s children’s education and Cool New Shoes Man’s wedding were very worthwhile causes and I supported them whole-hoofedly.
I am tempted to list mother’s corresponding lists of physical damage but frankly I can’t even spell half of what’s wrong with her. When they ask prior medical history at the hospital, they’d be better off reading the Lord of the Rings set cover to cover. In Latin. It would be quicker… All I do know is waiting for her to get her leg over on our ride on Sunday was like waiting for a slow worm to finish the London marathon… and a lot less entertaining…
As yet again I am left to ponder life’s unfairness, I do have to tell you she’s off to some foreign island so you won’t hear from me next week due to her bank balance not stretching to a secretary for me. I am but the messenger, so please direct all complaints to the mothership, which I am sure she will pay as much attention to as my demands for increased food rations.
Laters,
Hovis
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